Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 8

  She opened the wooden lid and extracted the object of her search: a rough-spun, moth-eaten brown scarf. It was quite a bit smaller and more dingy than she remembered, but she was glad she hadn’t thrown it out.

  As she held the wool in her hands, she could remember the warmth of the sun, and the salty smell of the sea on the day she had, as a child, crept on to the Chagny family’s private beach hoping to admire the noble ladies in their beautiful clothes and sparkling jewelry. Despite the month—June, she recalled—the wind had been fierce, and the temperature so close to the ocean had become uncomfortable enough that she had been very glad for her scarf. Her mother had made it for her before she died, and though Christine could barely remember her, as a child she had treasured the scarf because it smelled of cloves and cinnamon, as her mother always had.

  When the wind had ripped the scarf from her neck and cruelly carried it off into the surf, she had been so heartbroken that she had cried aloud and given away her presence to the wealthy boy and his governess whom she had been watching. The governess had immediately called for the attendants to escort “the filthy waif” from the Chagny’s property, but Christine, about to run, tarried to watch the little boy, who had dashed madly into the ocean after her scarf. The governess had cried sharply for him to come back at once, and Christine had screamed the same, falling to her knees and entreating Aegir for mercy and not to trap the boy forever beneath the waves.

  The servants had secured Christine by the arms by the time the boy had strode triumphantly out of the ocean, with the sopping scarf held high. It had been like a faerie tale to Christine as he, the handsome young prince, demanded that the attendants release her, and despite the governess’ protests, had invited Christine into his beautiful summer estate to share lunch with him. Though she had gaped at all the marvelous fineries and quite disgusted the snobbish governess with her awkward, peasant manners, the handsome prince (who introduced himself as Raoul, future Vicomte de Chagny) had been very kind and treated her as he would have a noble lady.

  Raoul had said that it was his parents’ wish that he spend his summer at their Trouville-sur-Mer mansion, and admitted to her that he was quite bored with country life, because there were no children of a similar age with whom he could pass the hours. When he had beseeched her to return the following day to alleviate his boredom, she had been so thrilled to accept that she had spilled her tea. They had quickly become the best of companions and spent every moment together until he had returned to Paris at the beginning of September. He had promised to return early the following summer, but though she convinced her father (with many tantrums and threats of running away) to remain in Trouville-sur-Mer throughout that next summer, Raoul had never appeared. And after that, her father’s travels had never taken her back to Trouville-sur-Mer. It had been like a tragic play, their romance nipped in the bud before it could open but a few petals.

  But now, so many years later, after all her hardships, her poverty, the death of her father, her dismal life in the opera house, the Norn that looked after her fate had finally made up for it all—first with the Angel, and then with Raoul’s reentrance into her life.

  She pulled a magic charm out of her pocket—a small, home-made affair consisting of a pilfered ruby earring, dried sprigs of vervain and thyme, and a string of copper beads (all symbols of the goddess Freya)—and clasped her hands together, saying aloud, “Please, most gracious Norn who controls my destiny, though you be but a demigoddess, your power bends the fates of even the gods themselves; please find it within the goodness of your heart to make the love that Vicomte Raoul de Chagny bears for me—for I’m sure he loves me—burn like a raging fire within his chest, and lead him to marry me and make me a vicomtess…. Please,” she said again, wringing her hands, “please let me escape this wretched poverty.”

  Though she received no sign that the Norn had heard, she felt better knowing that her fate was in good hands and began to take the seashells from the little box (mementos from the beach) and arrange them on her vanity. How could Raoul not marry her, when the supernatural was involved? And even if it hadn’t been, she was very, very pretty—she had been told so many times—and with her new divahood, she was, while not nobility, more worthy of marriage to a vicomte than most denizens of Paris.

  But, she thought, with a sudden frown, as long as the Angel opposes my relationship with Raoul, I have no chance with him. More than once, Raoul had cornered her and demanded to know why she refused to acknowledge his presence. She’d had no choice but to thrust hasty excuses at him and slip away. She had tried to tell him about the Angel, but he had just smiled and agreed with everything she said, like an adult indulging a child’s fantastic ramblings. It annoyed her a little—a lot, actually; he had never believed in the Angel, even when they were children—but she supposed it did seem a little unbelievable. Despite his refusal to listen, she continued to drop hints; what else could she do? It was all so stressing!

  But still, it was secretly quite lovely to have such a dedicated admirer. In Raoul’s eyes, she had no flaws. But it was terrible to hear his compliments; even as they sent a wave of heat through her body, a chill shook her heart—what if the Angel heard? But the gods were on her side. She had to remember that.

  One evening not long after, Christine opened her dressing room door to find Raoul standing there, looking exceptionally dashing in a blue dinner jacket trimmed with gold embroidery and an immaculate ruffled shirt. Christine, surprised that he would go so far as to come to her private rooms so soon after breaking her door down, made the mistake of looking into his eyes. They were crystalline and azure, as beautiful and shining as diamonds. Even seeing them from a distance had had a terrible effect on her, but now that he was so close…. Before he had even opened his mouth, she felt her heart thunder within her chest, and the celerity of the beats increase.

  “Ah, my alluring angel,” he began, “you shan’t avoid me a moment longer. I have arranged for a private dinner—just the two of us. I’ll ready the carriage, while you get dressed in something more”—he eyed her costume with a beautiful, devilish grin—“suitable. I’ll give you two minutes.” And with that, he turned and strode down the hall.

  “The Angel is very strict!” Christine shouted after him. But Raoul was already out of earshot. As much as she wanted to go with Raoul—to spend an evening in some lavish restaurant, followed by a dreamy drive along the Seine in his carriage—the Angel was most certainly watching. Perhaps she could pretend to go home and then meet Raoul in front of the opera house. She wasn’t betraying the Angel—just having dinner with a childhood friend. There was nothing wrong with that. And the Angel never need know.

  Erik leaned against the wall of the hidden passage behind Christine’s mirror, watching her intently. When Christine had opened the door to reveal the vicomte, he’d been fearfully certain that she would accept his offer. Perhaps she had mulled over what he had said the night of the performance and had come to realize that these men held poor intentions.

  The voice in the back of his mind started to protest this last thought, muttering that he wasn’t an angel any more than he was a vicomte, and that Christine’s love interests weren’t any of his business, but he silenced it before it could finish. Christine had put her future in his hands, and that made these circling wolves his business—he just had to concentrate on that, and not the feverish pang of jealousy that twisted in his heart every time he thought of Christine’s ardent interest in the vicomte. She had no idea of the dangers involved with celebrity status, despite his warnings.

  Erik straightened, suddenly noticing what Christine was doing. She had discarded the plain, woolen dress she had intended to change into and had chosen another from her closet. It was a blue silk gown, with delicate silver threads embroidered into exquisite swirls and stars. As she appraised it with critical eyes, Erik tried to recall where she had gotten it. Ah yes—it had been her costume for The Magic Flute. But what was she doing with it? It should be in storage with all the o
ther old costumes. Obviously she’d seen fit to appropriate it.

  As she began changing one costume for another, Erik turned away, mind racing. It was quite apparent that she intended to accept the vicomte’s offer. What other reason could there be for her choice in apparel? Christine had rejected his warning. Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Her pagan beliefs, with their damnation of the soul to a dark, lightless Underworld for eternity, worked against him: if the next world was to be one of never-ending torment, the obvious reaction of a typical human was to get as much pleasure as possible out of this life. And the gentlemen who were showering her with attention could offer her much, much more in terms of wealth, comfort, and beauty than he ever could…. But he shoved the anguish away—this moment called for decisive action.

  When the rustling of clothes stopped, he turned back. Christine was fully dressed in the sparkling gown and checking her hair in the trick mirror, only inches away from him. The excited light in her eyes hurt him, and he set his jaw decisively; he had to do something, and quickly. If the vicomte had been a true gentleman, sincerely seeking Christine’s hand in marriage, he would have hesitated to interfere, despite the love that flared in his own chest. But what aristocrat would consider marrying so far below his station? Besides, he had taken note of the look in the vicomte’s eyes whenever he saw Christine—it was the look of a ravenous wolf. There was no chance that his courtship was genuine.

  He had hoped to keep his angelic façade in place until Christine’s position as sole diva had been firmly established, but he couldn’t think of anything to do but compromise his plans to protect Christine. She wouldn’t believe him if he simply told her the truth about the gentlemen pursuing her—he had tried that already.

  As she started for the door, he flipped a switch, which cut the gas to the lamps lining the walls—a trick he had installed with the intention of amusing her.

  Christine froze as the light in the room was obliterated, her hand jerking guiltily away from the doorknob. Erik let his voice sound, all traces of angelic heavenliness gone. “Good evening, Christine.” His words resounded off the walls, magnifying with every reverberation until it was almost deafening.

  Christine’s eyes widened in shock, and it took a moment before she could regain her composure enough to form a reply. “Angel!” she squeaked, scuttling to the center of the room to further the pretense that she had not been about to leave. “G-good evening.”

  “You’re in danger,” he said.

  “W-w-whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean these aristocrats who have set their sights on you.”

  She looked surprised, then annoyed, before finally arranging her face in a puzzled expression. “Why Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “These men are only interested in using you.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Trust me, Christine, they aren’t after marriage or—”

  “You’re wrong!” she interrupted. “And it’s none of your business what I do in my free time!”

  “But—”

  “No! I’m done listening to you!”

  She whirled around and stomped towards the door. The force with which she slammed her feet into the floor caused one of the flimsy costumes heels to break, and she lost her balance and fell.

  Erik flipped the switch opening the passageway and was halfway through the mirror frame towards her when her forehead crashed into the unforgiving wood of the vanity. He was instantly at her side, cursing fate and his stupid decision to make her angry, and examined her head. She was unconscious, and he was alarmed to see that the side of her head was already starting to color and swell painfully.

  He looked toward the door, wondering if he needed to fetch Christine help. But the Garnier had no physician employed and no one else would be of much help. He had a little medical knowledge—just bits and pieces he had picked up from his pursuit of knowledge; hopefully it would be sufficient.

  He wanted to fetch a cold compress for her forehead, but he didn’t dare leave her. So he grabbed a stained pillow out from a pile of stuff in Christine’s closet to make her more comfortable, and waited for her to regain consciousness.

  Chapitre Huit: Le Vérité du Ange

  Christine’s eyes fluttered open, and she moaned as a terrible searing pain in the side of her head jarred her fully awake. She couldn’t really remember what had happened, or where she was, or why her body ached.

  She frowned as the ceiling came into partial focus, and she realized that she was looking at the stained, cracking tiles of her dressing room. She struggled to sit up, and found herself lying on the floor before a sharp pang in her head distracted her.

  As she clutched her head in agony, a beautiful, familiar voice, deep and sonorous, inquired concernedly, “Christine, how do you feel?”

  It was the Angel’s voice—but instead of resounding from all corners of the room, it came directly from her right. She turned quickly to locate it, and was shocked to see a man kneeling by her side.

  This wasn’t the Angel—Gods, who was he? “Angel!” she cried, clutching trembling fingers around the charm at her throat, a relief of Thor’s magical hammer etched in pewter. “Angel, help me!”

  “Do not be afraid,” he pleaded. “You are in no danger.”

  It was the Angel’s voice!

  He was clad fully in black, save for a white porcelain mask covering half of his face. The half she could see was attractive, seeming very noble and breathtaking, with dark, passionate eyes. But he was still a very mortal man, despite his likeness to the dashing Angel she had imagined. Could this possibly be the Angel…? No, it could not be true! She raised an arm in an attempt to rip off his mask, but the sudden motion sparked unbearable pain in her shoulder.

  “Your shoe broke and you fell,” he said somberly, as she collapsed back onto the floor.

  The pain, the swirling confusion in her head, and the nausea threatening her stomach were so overwhelming that she started to sob. She tried to keep from shaking because it hurt so badly, but to no avail. “I feel so sick,” she whispered. “My head hurts and I feel sick…and dizzy…” She breathed deeply, trying to focus her thoughts. “Everything is blurry.”

  “You may have a concussion,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “An impact to the head that jars the brain—”

  “Oh, Gods, don’t tell me that,” she said, as her stomach threatened to revolt.

  “You woke up quickly, and the bump doesn’t look severe, so I think the concussion is mild,” he said, pain in his deep voice.

  “How—how long will it last?”

  “A few hours, a few days at the most—as I said, it is mild.”

  She lay on the floor for a long time, the masked man at her side; she kept her eyes closed, thinking little and waiting for the pain to subside. The dizziness started to let up, and in its place, her ears began to ring. When the shock had worn off, her thoughts started to gather. “So then…you’re…not an angel?”

  It took him a long moment to answer. “No.”

  “Gods, gods,” she sobbed, “it was all a lie.” Her hopes, her dreams, dashed, and in their place this man, who had lied to her, convinced her that the Angel of Music had come at last. Oh, she had been such a fool!

  The Voice—or whoever he was—looked even sadder than before. “I’m so sorry, Christine.”

  “Who are you, then?” she demanded, her voice choked with sobs.

  “I am Erik,” he said.

  “Erik what?”

  “I do not possess a last name—I am merely the phantom of this opera house.”

  Christine’s heart sank even further. So, she thought miserably, THIS is the Opera Ghost. And that, too, is but a sham; merely a fantasy to ensnare the weak-minded.

  “I am sorry, Christine, sorry for everything,” he said, still on his knees. He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “I did not want to lie to you. And I didn’t mean to destroy your illusions like this—I ju
st wanted to protect you from harm—and in my haste, I’ve ruined everything…. And on top of it all, you were hurt.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, touched by his grief. “I’m very clumsy.”

  Her words didn’t lighten the somberness of his expression. “As soon as you feel better, I’ll leave—go to dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny. I won’t trouble you ever again.” His anguish was so poignant that she began to cry, and she realized that his eyes as well were threatening tears. “I would beg that you would allow me to remain as your instructor, but I cannot even ask—I’ve deceived you too greatly for that.” The half of his face not covered by his mask was bold and rather handsome. His eyes, just a shade darker than emerald, were bright and shining despite the dim candlelight. The forced calm of his body belied the passionate fire in his eyes, and she blinked in surprise. She didn’t have much experience in the subject, but he seemed quite in love with her.

  She supposed it wasn’t that surprising; she was fantastically beautiful, after all—it was natural that men would fall for her.

  Christine thought about it for a several minutes, finding it difficult to focus her thoughts. She wasn’t sure what to do about the masked man. He had taken advantage of her faith and desperation. She felt so betrayed and so stupid for believing him that she never wanted to see him again.

  She started to tell him to leave, but then stopped to think. Why had he lied to her? What had he gotten out of it? He’d gone to far too much effort to teach her for the whole thing to have just been a joke. It would be better if she sent him away until she had figured it out. Yes, she would send him away and go to dinner with Raoul as planned.

  A sharp pang in her head put an end to her ambitious plans. She was in no condition to return to life as usual, not for dinners, performances, or anything else. She weighed her headache against her desire to keep her dinner date with Raoul. She hated to lose a glamorous dinner, and worse, what if Raoul took some other girl instead? But at the same time, she could have dinner with Raoul any time she chose—he was completely infatuated with her—and Raoul would love her all the more for having worried for a while. When he came back to see what had happened to her, he would be so concerned that he would undoubtedly cancel his plans for the rest of the week to spend every minute by her side.